The Watcher: The Street Urchin Princess
by Little Nothing
Summary: This story is from The Watcher, I was intrigued by Keanu Reeves in this movie, mostly by his behavior towards his victims. I love little Antigone, so cynical *sigh*


Antigone inhaled deeply on her cigarette, sucking the poisonous smoke into her already blackened, dying lungs. The nicotine spiked through her system, bringing a pleased smile to her face. She didn't allow herself many smiles, and hopefully this one would last.  
  
She was a slight girl, about sixteen with blonde hair that had once been clean and lustrous but was now dirty and knotted into thick dreadlocks. Her face was clean only because she had gotten to use the McDonalds bathroom this morning to clean up. Her clothes were black, but not enough to hide the stains and grime accumulated from weeks of wear. She imagined she was a sorry sight to see.  
  
That is, if anyone sees me, she thought cynically, looking down at the cigarette between her fingers and the black dirt beneath her nails. She glanced up at the street around her. Dozens of people milled around both sides of the bench she was sitting on, all looking forward in their own little self-involved worlds. With the looks of blank determination on their faces, you'd think they were setting off to save the world. But really, they were just heading back to their desks after lunch where they would type meaningless numbers into a computer until quitting time. Then all the little sheep would be herded back to their single-family pens. When they got there, one of them would more than likely put a pistol in their mouth, sick of the world wiping it's ass with him and having to smile and thank it.  
  
The citizens of Seattle merely walked around the poor little girl sitting alone on a bench outside the obligatory Starbucks on every block. They were way too busy number crunching to see the scum of the city. The grimy little children of the streets, the ones that surface at night to beg for pocket change and groom themselves in restaurant bathrooms. It was easy for these people to ignore what they didn't want to see, these street kids could be their children one day.  
  
  
  
But one man saw her. He stood across the crowded street from her, leaning on a parking meter, watching her every move. He was dressed tastefully in a gray turtleneck sweater, black tailored slacks, and a long black trench coat. Antigone may have thought she blended in to the background, but this man truly succeeded. He looked just like every other man on the streets on Seattle, searching only for a double tall mocha latte to pump himself full of caffeine so he could design programs for Microsoft. But this man was different. He was the watcher.  
  
Antigone rose from the bench she had been sitting Indian-style on and arched her back. The continuing flow of bodies adapted to the new obstacle her body proposed, much like the river churning around a boulder. She turned to the right, jammed her hands in her pockets, and began to walk, head down looking at her feet. The watcher moved too, matching her stride a few yards behind on the other side of the street. The time was certainly not right. But it would soon come.  
  
A few hours later, Antigone sat on yet another bench about seven blocks from the first one. She had pulled her hair back in a ponytail with a rubber band she stole from an office supply store. In her hand, she held an empty Starbucks coffee cup and quietly asked for change from the passerby's. Many of them ignored her pleas, some turned to give her a pitiful look, and a very few dropped some change into the cup. A large woman with mossy teeth and curlers in her hair dropped a folded paper into Antigone's lap. The lady stood there with her arms crossed until the little street girl picked up the paper. Find The One True God, Or Suffer was what it said across the front. A religious pamphlet. Antigone looked at the pamphlet the way she would look at a slimy, dirty rat, an expression of utter disgust crossed her face. She threw the pamphlet down in front of the bench, at the woman's feet, and spat on it. The doughy woman's face contorted in rage as she crossed herself and scuffled on her way. Damn Religious ladies, Antigone thought, this little street bitch needs food not God.  
  
Her disgust and anger were starting to wear off when a twenty-dollar bill was dropped lightly into the cup. She stared at its crinkled form for a moment, and then looked up into the gray eyes of a strikingly beautiful man. He had dark hair that fell down to his jaw, framing his face. He had soft eyes and sharp features, and a black trench coat she would die for. She stammered a bit, ready to ask him why he would give her that much money, but he stopped her. He leaned down and kissed her forehead lightly; making her glad she had washed her face this morning.  
  
"Take care of yourself." Was all he said. His voice was liquid gold that surrounded Antigone and brought a content smile to her face. Two smiles in one day. The man turned and walked away, his coat flowing like a cape behind him. Antigone stared after him for a moment, dumbstruck and shell- shocked. She closed her eyes and shook her head violently, whipping her dreadlocks around her face, hitting herself a dozen times. She blinked three times to clear her head, and then went back to the task of collecting more money. She was careful to secure the twenty in her back pocket; it wouldn't do well to evoke pity in her donators.  
  
The man watched her from down the street, pocketing the twenty he gave her and continuing to beg for more. Two hours later, the streets were nearly empty. It was a Tuesday night and all the little web masters had to return to their nerd roosts to rest for another eventful day of sitting on their asses. The lone street urchin climbed through the basement window of the office building she sometimes slept in. The man in black watched her, waited a few minutes, and crept to the window to search her out. She was not in the room the window opened into, so he climbed through and dropped quietly to the dirty concrete floor. He had already pulled his black leather gloves on over his strong, pale hands, so he slipped the piano wire out of the pocket of his jacket. He slinked silently across the room and peered around the doorway. The girl sat on the floor, Indian-style again, reading a worn paperback she had bought from the used bookstore on the way to the building. She never saw him sneaking up behind her, never saw the cold look on his face, never saw what was coming next. He came up right behind her and pulled the wire across her throat before she knew what was happening.  
  
Antigone was in the middle of a particularly sexy scene in her slash novel when the metal wire wrapped around her throat and abruptly cut off the sweet oxygen flowing into her body. She let out a throaty, gargling sound and clawed at the metal asphyxiation device wrapped around her delicate throat. Her attacker jerked on the wire and pulled her off the ground and into the air. Her legs kicked hopelessly, trying to find the ground. The wire bit into her delicate skin, dark blood seeped out from beneath the silver.  
  
"I told you to take care of yourself, you're not doing a very good job." A voice said behind her, the voice of her attacker, the voice of her death. She recognized the words from the man who gave her the twenty. She knew that much money would not be given to her without some repayment. She thought about the apparently evil family she had left behind when she took to the streets, and realized she would give anything to be back with them. She thought of the religious woman, and wondered if she would go to hell. As red began to seep into her vision, she felt a tear leak out. It had been two years since she had last cried. And just as she had suspected, tears meant death on the streets. That was the last thought that whirled through her head as the blackness washed over her. Then there was nothing.  
  
  
  
The watcher slipped the wire from around the girl's throat. He wiped the wire with her shirt to clean her life's blood off of it, the life that he had taken. He crouched next to his victim and watched the blood pool around her head, like the glowing halos in the old painting of the virgin Mary. Soon he had to leave. He silently rose, blew a kiss to the stiffening body of the beautiful girl named for a Greek play, and returned to the street. There were many things to do tonight. He had spent all day watching the young street rat. He had not gotten home to feed his cat, and his movies were due back at Blockbuster before midnight. He looked at his watch. Shit, it was 12:30. Now Free Willy would have a late fee. The man cursed himself and continued to stroll down the street. 


End file.
